CHAPTER SEVEN

If I have to rate our migration on a scale of 1-10, I'd love to give it a nine. Nine because I thought it was just my parents driving themselves nuts believing everything would be better if we change the environment. Nine because nothing's perfect. Nine because at some point, I realize I still have one reason not to forget Italy-and the one and only special day I spent back there.

Normally, it's okay to talk with strangers even if it's strictly prohibited by the parents. I always believe that not everyone is bad, though not everyone is good either.

It was a summer evening on July six, two years ago, when I had an after-dinner walk by the waysides outside our subdivision all by myself. I don't know what came across my mind to do such a thing during that time, knowing I'm a house person and having a simple night stroll was out of my circle.

The City Central Park was pristine 24/7 because it's where most of the Italians gather every Friday to host a little shindig for everyone. I never ever tried to attend the said fete, but according to all the hearsays I heard, it's a must-not-miss celebration. That's why to get rid of the doubts, I went there to see for myself.

It was an open funfair. Nothing different compared to funfairs at school, except that it was celebrated not by students, but by a motley community of partygoers. I'm not really surprised when I got there. I have high expectations of Italian gatherings, that's why I knew very well that this one was going to be so drop-dead gorgeous.

There are a lot of rides; Merry-go-round, Ferris wheel, rollercoaster, horror train, and even this weird stomach-churning and bone-chilling ride where you'll be shot up above, and there you'll see the entirety of the place. You'll feel that you're almost as high as the sky and that the stars are right by your side. But just when you start to appreciate the aesthetic view, you'll be dropped down all of a sudden. Great. They called it sky drop because it's literally an act of dropping a bunch of people from the sky. From what I have observed, it's where most of the screams came from.

Moving on, there's a mini bar that stood at the back of the merry-go-round. I went there, and of course, people inside were dancing and flirting, mingling, and drinking wines and liquors and everything alcoholic. It's obviously a disco party and everyone's enjoying it. Yeah, from what I have seen, it's really enjoyable-but it's not my cup of tea.

I spent more or less five minutes sitting next to the busy bartender before I got bored and decided to get out of the place. The flashing of the disco lights along with the heart-pounding sound of the music convinced me that no matter how fun it was inside, I'm really not meant to stay there. Without anyone noticing my arrival, and let's say my departure too, I sent myself out of the bar. It's as if nothing happened-though nothing really happened actually. I entered like a ghost, I left like a ghost.

I was a ghost like any other ghost that was invisible and that could move freely without being noticed by anyone. That's what I thought I was. But somehow, someone was able to differentiate things between poltergeists and me. And somehow, someone was able to notice me as I sneak my way in and out of the bar, making me believe that I wasn't a ghost after all.

He appeared behind me saying, "You act like you're trying to steal something inside," and then I was annoyed. But when I turned back, I'm not annoyed anymore. That quick.

It's because it was a guy; tall and slender, had this brass-colored skin shining every time the party lights kissed it, and his hair looked like a nest of a phoenix. His face, unluckily, I failed to look at them vividly because of the absence of light. There were times that the disco ball lit upon his face but it wasn't enough for me to say he's handsome-or if he really is.

Stammering, I was like, "No. Not what you're thinking. By the way, I gotta go. Bye. I really needed to go. I'm in a rush. Bye. Goodbye," but not moving an inch.

I sounded like Nicki Minaj on a rap song during that time, but he was just too much for me to handle. I don't talk to any other guys aside from Papà. That's why being acquainted with a guy in the bar where I was supposed to be a ghost was a new level of trepidation for me.

But the dread didn't stop there. He followed me all the way out of the park until we reached the cul-de-sac of our subdivision where I decided to give up and clear things with him for heaven's sake.

I went like, "If you're trying to kidnap me, go on. But please, give me some time to go back to my house and get a bunch of my maintenance medicines."

And then he laughed. He laughed so hard that he crossed his arms over his stomach in an attempt to catch his breath. "I'm too hot to be your kidnapper."

"Shut up. As if I couldn't tell."

"So you agree?"

"I don't lie. But I don't give compliments that easy, too."

"I don't need compliments. I have received too much already."

"That confidence is turning me off."

"So you like me?

"No."

"I'm a good guy."

"Treacherous."

That's what I thought was the end. But actually, it was just the beginning.

He threw back his head and let out a loud, humorless laugh that made me question if he's gone crazy or what. "I think my beauty is too much for you to handle. It drives you wild."

"If that is a question, I would honestly answer 'yes.' However, it is a statement subject for debate."

"How could you say so?" I asked.

He took off his pale grey short-sleeved blazers, and there on his body revealed a lot of patches and stitches; a large one on his chest, one on his right, and one on the upper part of his stomach. All were fresh, erythematous, ecchymosed, indurated, and horribly looking tortured.

Without minding showing them to me, he continued saying, "Because no one knows if your statement is a fact, a bluff, or an opinion."

I skipped hearing what he said. At that moment, I was deaf. But I wasn't blind. I had missed hearing his words, but I didn't miss seeing his body.

"Like what the hell? What is that?" I covered my mouth with the back of my right hand.

"Nothing. Stop beating around the bush." He smirked.

"No. Seriously. What are they?"

He asked me a terrible question with an optimistic tone. "You're sick, too. Right?"

"Yes, I am. I have CHD."

He clapped once, yelled 'bingo' and pointed his index finger to me like it was a gun. "Let's put it in this way. You're sick, I'm dying." He put on his blazers back. It's like he intentionally took it off to show me what was behind those suave tops.

"But I am dying also," I said. I felt a little numb on my feet, so I walked across the pathways that led to the drought fountain at the center of the subdivision, a few blocks away from our house.

He followed me. But that didn't stop him from talking. "No. I'm dead long before you'll know you're dying. Your CHD has nothing to say about my multiple illnesses. My pain is like your pain folded a thousand times." He smirked, again, and sat on the fountain a meter away from me, giving me a glare like a lawyer finally winning his argument.

"You're in that case yet you still have the guts to brag everything about your disease." I breathed deeply.

For a second, I realized I had been gaping at him, but thank goodness he was paying attention to his blazer's button that was inserted into the wrong buttonhole and not to me.

When he was done fixing his button-to-buttonhole issue, he turned his head in my direction. "Correction. Diseases. But whatever. That's the best thing I can do with my life. Bragging as if having it is something to be grateful for, when actually what I feel is really the opposite."

It was nice, so nice, to have small talks with him at the heart of the subdivision where no one was there except for the moon and the stars who witnessed the entire scene. But what's nice even more was to be in the midst of darksome with so much silence that we could even hear our own breaths. It was only the howls of the wind and the hums of the nightingale that added noise to the almost fairytale moment.

ALMOST. Because someone came to cause a crack. No. Not just a crack. Someone came to put everything to an end. Papà. His untimely arrival caught us in surprise. With all the beeps, with all the lights, and with all the screeching of the tires of his police car, everything ended.

He stopped right in front of the fountain, lowered his car's window, and yelled out his frustration in Italian. "Ne parleremo quando torneremo a casa." (We'll talk about this when we got home.)

That's not how fairytales end. Therefore, it wasn't a fairytale. Not even close.

I got inside of the car and didn't dare myself to take a last glimpse of him anymore. I left him sitting at the same spot with no idea what was happening. We might be strangers to each other, but I know that he was thinking the same thing as I did during that time: We'll never cross our paths again.

That's how my first love started and ended at the same time.

I don't have any information about him. Not even his name. Or his address. Or his favorites. All I know was he is sick, and as for him, he is dying. That's all I know. That's all I have left to remember forever.

He's the subject of my very first letter. Though there's no way it could be possible, I'm still hoping that someday, I will receive a letter from him. A letter that says he's alive.

Because as long as he's alive, that's enough for me. We're both dying and I just want to die with him. Or at least die before him.

What is love? For me, it's seeing a person for the first time and wishing to see him until the end of TIME.